The Ghostly Findings of a Ghost-Finder

Halloween is fast approaching and what more appropriate time to visit the mysterious exploits of Thomas Carnacki than when “the leaves are crisped and sere.” The English investigator of things that go bump in the night was created by authour William Hope Hodgson in the early years of last century. The "Ghost-Finder’s” initial appearance in the publications The Idler and The New Magazine coincided with the ever intriguing age of Spirituality which was pockmarked with candle-lit rooms and mournfully adorned individuals of heightened sensitivities to the visits of the deceased and otherwise ethereal passers-by. The Edwardian detective shares similar shades of tone with the brooding Sherlock Holmes, and as a Holmes enthusiast I can honestly expound of my own conviction, Carnacki as most deserving of sharing a hansom cab with the enigmatic gentleman of Baker’s Street. Of the ghosts haunting the pages of Carnackian adventures one may be reminded at times of the dreadful manifestations of H.P. Lovecraft, who was so wonderfully capable of provoking a sense of fear and uncertainty of the unknown foliations and age of existence. The world of spooks is indeed a large one, and its expanse is jealously fogged. Thomas Carnacki, though skeptical until the very last shadow of scientific causation has vanished, is a most intrepid believer compelled to explore this region and his adventures are utterly thrilling. From what I have been able to unearth concerning the literature and publications of Hodgson’s creation have suggested limited illustrations, which only availed my desire to pen my own. The composition of the drawing below was done simply for love of the craft and the stories. Attempting the somber atmosphere of those stories required a tremendous amount of ink and my nose has been greatly piqued by the applications.

Immortality and Mayflies

I am recording this only to state a point which not only nettles me, but instigates a curiosity of its impression upon my fellow human beings. I find that more often than not my brain is surprisingly taxed with the knowledge that, as far as I or any living being is aware of, one has but a single lifetime to animate their inspirations and influences. A considerable volume of time that would be best spent sleeping is increasingly becoming exhausted by the contemplation of just this fact, and I daresay every morning I wake up a trifle madder than I had been the previous day. My mortality finds this thoroughly hilarious and spends a great deal of time informing my ambition just how much. The acquisition of lifetimes, like smell-collecting, can be very difficult and best left to Biblical notables though not necessarily people with very large noses, unless they occupy antediluvian earth. Though this does not necessarily impede my thoughts on the subject, and I am afraid it will only strengthen their reserve because they can sometimes be tenacious even when asked not to be. Furthermore, I have just learned that the Dolania americana mayfly exhausts it’s lifespan in a matter of minutes. This bit of knowledge makes me feel very unusual and a bit ashamed for complaining. In any event, I should like several additional lifetimes, or the ability to execute compositional feats at alarming speeds. I hope this is not unreasonable.